


Keep Losing Sleep

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Insomnia, weird families bonding weirdly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:42:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8680942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: “When’d you last sleep?” Jay asks, curious.
“Eleven years ago,” Tim says, at the same time as Dick says, “Tuesday.”





	

The glow of the computer screen casts the Cave in a faintly blue light. It smells damp down here, like rain and wet earth.

It’s quiet, too. Only the sporadic sounds of keystrokes, and the regular beat of fists and feet against the punching bag in the training area. And Bruce is nearly done for the night.

He cracks his knuckles again, double-checks a few files. Finishes updating the ongoing case reports, considers changing Riddler’s status again; criminal? anti-hero? potential ally? honestly, he boomerangs between them so frequently, Bruce thinks, he should start leaving Nygma’s file open on the computer.

He hits  _Save_ , closes all his active files. Pushes back his chair. 

And he’s on his way to the stairs, passing the single pool of light at the mats, when he stops. 

Tim doesn’t notice him right away. The kid is dressed in loose-fitting black clothes. His knuckles are strapped, his feet bare, and Bruce takes a minute to admire his form, his grace and  _ferocity_ , a couple rapid-fire punches followed up with an elegant spin kick, enough force behind it to incapacitate.

He stops, then, for a moment, when he catches sight of Bruce. Stopping his follow-up punch short. Instead, he sweeps his sweaty hair from his temples, flashes Bruce a smile. 

“Looking good, Tim,” Bruce says, folding his arms.

“Thanks,” he says, flushed pink with exertion. He collects his water bottle from the ground, downs a third of the contents. 

“I’m turning in,” Bruce says.

Tim nods, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Okay. Goodnight.”

“See, it was subtle,” Bruce tells him. “But that was me reminding you that it’s late, and that you should turn in soon too.”

“Oh, I picked up on it,” Tim laughs. He’s panting, limbs loose, sweat-curled hair damp at his neck and temples. He’s been at it pretty hard, working steady over the last few hours. So long the sounds had become background noise to Bruce. He takes another swig of water, absent. “Thanks B.”

Bruce eyes Tim another moment, feels an unwilling smile pull at the corner of his lip, even if it’s a touch sad. “Try and get some sleep, Tim.”

“That’s the plan,” Tim agrees, grinning crookedly. 

And as Bruce heads upstairs, he hears some 90s punk music beginning to play on the Cave’s sound system. Hears the dull  _thwup_  of the punching bag start up again.

And Bruce thinks, You could have played that with me there, Tim.

—

Dick’s rubbing irritably at his eyes. It’s 3.30am, and he’s given up on sleep. At least for the moment.  
He’s debating the merits of a glass of warm milk versus stuffing his face with whatever leftovers are in the fridge (he _loves_  the Manor, Alfred’s leftovers are five-star cuisine). And he’s at the bottom of the stairs, headed for the kitchen, when he sees the light on in the parlour.

Weird. Alfred doesn’t usually forget…

And the door’s partway open, Tim in clean, ill-fitting sweats with fresh-washed hair, knees pulled up beside him on the couch, and “You’re still up, huh Tim?”

The kid turns to face the door, finger-marking his book. Smiles, “Mm, what tipped you off?”

“I didn’t know you were staying over,” says Dick, instead of acknowledging the smart-ass comment. Inviting himself into the parlour. But hey, what’re big brothers for?

Tim moves his feet of the couch, shuffles around some of his supplies to make room. The supplies include a stack of novels, some fiction and some not, some sort of dense science textbook (which, is just… why, Tim), a notebook and pen, a beat-up music player complete with headphones, and his powered-off laptop. Also, a box of low sodium crackers, and two bottles of spring water. 

“So how long’s it been since you’ve slept?” Dick asks, planting himself down by Tim. 

“Long enough,” Tim says, wry. Stretches out and flops back against the couch cushions. And then, “It’s just. It doesn’t feel as bad if there are other people around, even if all of them are sleeping, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that,” Dick says. “Hard to get used to living alone.” And there’s that awkward silence there, for a minute, where their shared history sits heavy between them.

Then Tim says, “It must be because Bruce is such a chatty Cathy.”

“I think that’s it,” Dick laughs, getting up again to drag over a warm throw from the other couch. He sits back down, pulling it, unasked, over himself and Timbo. Says belatedly, “You don’t mind if I hang out for a bit, right?”

Tim just nods, lets Dick settle beside him; “You can’t sleep either, huh?”

“Hmm. Getting restless.”

Tim nods again.

“So, think you’ll sleep tonight?”

“Hope so,” Tim says, and Dick bumps against him deliberately, all elbows, tells him “Catch me up on your life, I never get to see you any more.”

“Nothing to tell,” Tim says, huffs out a laugh. “Nothing you don’t know, I mean. I work a couple days a week doing the Tim Wayne thing. One weekend a month I hang with the Titans. I see you on patrol sometimes, so I know you’re all caught up with that. Um… I haven’t slept in four days. I got weirdly hit on by a WE intern, but I don’t think they knew I’m a Wayne. Oh, and I got a haircut a week ago that no one noticed.”

“Tell me about the intern,” Dick decides. 

“ _And_ ,” Tim says, louder. Slower. “I got a haircut last week that no one noticed.”

Dick makes a show of rolling his eyes, says “If I say that it looks nice – which it does, even though it’s like. Exactly the same – will you  _please_  tell me about getting weirdly hit on? I literally cannot take the suspense.”

“ _Or,_  you can catch me up on  _your_  life?”

“Hey, I’m an open book, kiddo, it’s–” Dick stops. Beams at the open door, where Jason is standing (looming, really), propped against the doorway. “Jaybird! You couldn’t sleep either?”

He straightens up, shakes his head, “Nah, had a couple weird-ass nightmares. Spooky monster-y ones, ya know the kind.” He comes into the parlour, pyjamas and bare feet. He flops down onto the carpet by the couch, runs a hand through his perpetually-scruffy hair. Then, looking crookedly up at them from the floor, he says, “ _Okay_ , I want to see four hands above that blanket quick smart, or this conversation is over.” 

“I don’t get–?  Oh  _yuck_ , Jay–”

“Keep it PG!”

But Jason just grins, unrepentant, while they laugh helplessly. Folding his arms over his knees.

“So,” he says, after a minute. “What’s got you kids up at such a late hour? Don’t you know to fear Alfred’s wrath?”

“Timmy’s the real rebel, I’m just keeping him company,” Dick explains, slinging an arm over Tim. 

“Who asked you to stay?” Tim says, shrugging him off– and ignoring the  _totally justified_  pout. But he relents, bumps their knees together under the blanket, “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Even though you totally were,” Jay stage-whispers, conspiratorially. And then, more seriously, brow wrinkling, “So you still can’t sleep, huh babybird?”

“Unfortunately.” 

And the kid does look exhausted, smudges like ink under his eyes, but he seems to be coping okay. Though the fact he came to the Manor at all speaks volumes.

“When’d you last sleep?” Jay asks, curious.

“Eleven years ago,” Tim says, at the same time as Dick says, “Tuesday.”

“Tragic,” Jason says, shaking his head. Then, “Did you try working it off? –hey, do you want to spar?”

“I tried it already,” the kid tells him, sagging back. Groaning. “And where were you an hour ago, huh?” And Tim gives a tiny sigh, then, says, “If we’re both still awake in an hour, I’ll take you up on that offer, okay?”

“Deal.”

And Dick says, “So Lil Wing, what’s been going on with you lately? Anything fun?”

Jason leans back, considering the question. Crossing his legs. Then, “Well, the other day I did see a girl I knew from grade school at the grocery.” 

“Oh yeah?” Dick perks up– he’d been expecting a smart answer, not something genuine. “What happened?”

“I remembered that I’m legally dead, so I hid behind a fruit stand until she left,” Jay tells him. 

Dick sags. “Why do you set me up like that, Jay.”

“Who could resist?” he’s grinning though, and so’s Tim, so Dick drops his face into his hands to hide his smile. Feels Tim pat his shoulder. 

He looks up, though, at a faint sound from the hall. Calls, after a moment, “B?”

Bruce ducks his head in, looking uneasy. He says, “Hello, boys.”

“What’re you doing up?” Jay asks him, but it’s interested rather than accusatory. “I was sure you went to bed.”

“I did,” Bruce tells him. If he’s surprised to see the three of them sitting together at 4am, Tim and Dick sharing a blanket, Jason cross-legged on the floor like a kid, he doesn’t show it. “I came downstairs for a glass of water.”

“And you were going to ignore us?” Dick says, wounded, while Jason goes with “You know there’s water upstairs, right?”

“I… didn’t want to interrupt,” he says, awkwardly.

At that, Jay rolls his eyes so far back Dick’s surprised they don’t get  _stuck_ , says, “Come sit down, you weirdo. We’re keeping the babybird company, ‘cause he still can’t sleep.”

And Bruce… actually does. He sits down in the armchair by the curtains, says at length, “Well we’re certainly a poster-family for sleep disorders.”

Dick laughs at that, Jason nodding, and Tim just sinks deeper into the couch. Dick thinks he probably wouldn’t laugh if he’d been awake for four days, too.

“Least it’s not lonely,” Dick says cheerfully. Prods Tim with his elbow again, just because he can. And Tim, bless him, just lets it happen. 

Then, “Say B?” Tim says. “Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep, for that talk-show interview?”

“That’s not for two days,” Bruce says. Then, “But gee, thanks for reminding me, Tiger, ha ha.”

“ _No_ ,” Dick says, while Jason flops, groaning, to the carpet. “Bruce is welcome here. Brucie is  _not_ , it is too late at night to deal with that.”

And B laughs then, his real laugh, the one that’s hardly there but genuine. 

“Talk show, huh? Which one, boss?” Jason asks, looking up at Bruce from his spot on the floor.

“Just a daytime talk show,” Bruce says evasively, which is huge mistake, because now Jason  _knows_  he’s touchy about it.

“Yeah, but which one? C’mon, just tell me,” Jason says, sitting up again. “You know if you don’t,  _he_  will.” and here, he jabs a thumb at where Dick is sitting on the couch.

“It’s true,” Dick says, semi-apologetically. “I’ll fold like a cheap suit.”

“Y’always do,” Jay tells him, sounding fond. Knocking his foot against Dick’s. And just then, there’s the faintest sound from upstairs– the creak of a foot on the hallway floor.

And at the same time, Bruce and Dick say “Damian–”, and they share a look of panic, Dick blurting “If he looks for us, we’re not there. Should I–?”

“I’ve got him,” Bruce says, quick, leaves the room. 

And Dick’s eyeing the ceiling worriedly, helplessly, when Jason rolls his eyes and snorts, says, “You’re such a  _dad_ , Dickie.”

“Excuse me, Jay, it’s called being a big brother. Maybe  _you_ should try it sometime,” Dick says crossly. 

And Jason eyes Tim pointedly, sizing him up, and Tim tells him “Don’t even try it.”

“Well it’s better than brother-ing _Damian_ ,” Jason mutters, but he’s fighting a smile.

And from the stairs, they hear one set of footsteps approaching the parlour. A murmured conversation outside– and Dick is hiding a smile badly behind his hand.

It takes a moment, but eventually the conversation is resolved, and there’s the sound of movement. Then Damian, sleep-rumpled and scowling faintly, enters first. Followed by Bruce.

“So Father tells me you are all conferring without me, as usual,” he says, as greeting. 

Bruce flicks him gently on the ear, laughing, says “I said nothing of the kind.”

And Damian, looking wounded, rubs at his ear. Then he heads for the couch Tim and Dick are sharing, while Bruce sits back down in his armchair. 

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” Dick asks him, sympathetic. Petting the spot beside him.

“ _Clearly_ ,” Damian says, adjusting the folds of his pyjamas regally. Then he sits. Then, scrunching his nose up, accusatory, he says, “What  _are_  you all doing up?”

“Same thing you are, lil man,” Jason tells him. “Making poor life choices.”

“Meaning what, Todd?”

And before Jason can respond, Dick says, “… do you guys think Alfred will get mad if we eat everything in the fridge?”

There’s a beat, in which his whole family turns to stare at him. “Are you actually hungry, Dick?” Bruce says, the first to break the silence. “Do you know it’s 4.30am?”

“Yes,” Dick says, defensive. “But my stomach doesn’t. And anyway, we can’t all settle for low sodium crackers as an early morning snack. That’s just sad.” 

“Shut up,” Tim tells him, snatching the box back. He puts it back on the floor, out of Dick’s reach. Scowling. 

“I think Alfred will be okay with it,” Bruce yawns. “But either way, I think I’m going to head back up to bed.” Then, standing, he says, “Damian, do you want to come back upstairs now, or you want to stay up a little longer?”

“Stay up,” Damian says decisively. “Even though I am sitting offensively close to Drake.”

“Whatever, gremlin,” Tim says, lying down on the couch. “I was here first.” 

And Bruce, standing at the door, hesitates. 

Jason grins. “See, he’s conflicted here, because he wants to say ‘go to sleep soon’ to be responsible, but he doesn’t want to be a  _total_  asshole to Timmers.”

“As observant and tactful as always, Jason,” Bruce says wearily. Holds up one hand, in a half-wave. “Goodnight, boys.”

There rises a chorus of “Goodnight, B”s and a “Goodnight, Father”. A mumbled, “Sleep well, Dad” from Dick. 

And they listen, in a surprisingly comfortable silence, to the sound of Bruce heading upstairs, Jason lying back down on the carpet.

Eventually, Dick says, “Dami, do you want me to make you some warm milk? To help you get sleepy again?”

“Pennyworth makes me tea,” Damian tells him, eyes narrowed.

“Tea, huh? I guess I could do tea. I mean, it wouldn’t be as good as Alfie’s, no question, but I think I can make it drinkable.” He scratches his head. “Y’know, probably.”

And Damian turns, expectant, to look at where Jason lays on the floor. Waits.

“What,” says Jason, half-sitting again. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“ _You_  can make tea,” Damian tells him. “I’ve seen you.”

“Wh–” Jason sputters. “Is this– you want me to make you tea?”

Dick interrupts, “C’mon guys, let’s be sensible–”

“You’re the only one here who is remotely functional in a kitchen, Todd,” Damian says. A frown, deeper than usual, scrunching his features. “Of course you should be the one to make my tea.”

“Okay first of all,  _ouch_ –”

“My competency is not the issue here, kid,” Jason’s incredulous. “I’m not here to– to  _do your bidding_ , okay?”

“It’s hardly an unreasonable request, Todd. I fail to see why you are arguing instead of just making the tea.”

“O—kay,” says Dick holding up his hands. “I think we  _all_  need a time out, because we’re tired and cranky and are all going to say things we regret–”

“Can it, Dickie.”

“Shut up, Grayson.”

Dick rubs his temples, resists the urge to kick Jason and Damian in the shins. He’s their big brother. It’s morally wrong.

Probably.

He says, opening his eyes again, “I could use a little help, here, Timbo– _ohh.._.” Frustration forgotten, he looks down at where Tim, barely half on the couch, is sleeping peacefully. Mouth open, one arm flung over the side of the couch, breathing deep and steady, and. How long has he been asleep?

“Heh,” Jay says, soft, smiling a crooked half-smile. And Dick just nods, eyes still on Tim.

“Typical Drake,” Damian says loudly, peering around Dick. “Sleeping, instead of getting involved with something for once–” and he’s off the couch, arms outstretched to wake poor Tim–

so Dick reels him in quickly, grabs him by the wrists and pulls him backward into something like an unwilling hug, has the sense to flatten a hand over his mouth. Says, into the boy’s ear, “No no, shh. We’ve got to let him sleep. He hasn’t slept in days, okay? This is a miracle.”

“ _Tt_ ,” Damian says, when Dick removes his hand. But he doesn’t pull away entirely. He even, after a moment, lets Dick pull him back far enough that he’s leaning, small and heavy and warm, on Dick’s leg. Lets Dick rest his cheek against Damian’s soft up-sticking hair.

And after a minute, quiet, Jason says, “So, you guys want to head to the kitchen, or–?”

“I’m good here for a while more,” Dick says, and Tim snores, half rolls to smush his face into the couch.

“Yeah, I guess I’m pretty set too,” Jason agrees, lying back comfortably on the plush carpet. “I’ve got no place else to be.”

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on[ tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/113876174900/keep-losing-sleep)


End file.
